Gillian Bagwell - The Darling Strumpet

“My joy.” She took his hand in hers. “If I have done one thing right in all of my life, it was to bear you. And if there is one thing that has made my stay upon this earth worth the living, it is to see you now, handsome and strong and smart and good, and with a fine life before you.”

“Mother.” His eyes were swimming with tears. “You’ll get better, I know.”

Nell smiled and shook her head. “I fear I won’t, my love. But I don’t mourn it. Of all those that have been dear to me, there are precious few left. The world’s a different place now, without them, and with you gone so far away.”

“I’ll stay if you like, you know.”

“No,” she said. “You must go and live your life. I know you’ll be thinking of me.”

“Every day.”

DR. TENISON’S VISITS WERE DAILY NOW, AND NELL LOOKED FORWARD to his presence as she had to no one’s since Charles’s death. She smiled at him over her cup of chocolate.

“I have been praying each day, as you told me,” she said. “I felt at first as though I were speaking to empty air. I wondered why I bothered. My mind would not cease its jangling. And as Claudius said, ‘Words without thoughts never to heaven go.’ Then it came to me that I have been battling to understand. And perhaps I can never understand. But I can believe anyway. That’s what you’ve been telling me, isn’t it?”

Dr. Tenison nodded.

“And now,” Nell continued, “all of a sudden, I feel that someone is listening.”

“Tell me.”

“It is the oddest thing, but yesterday when I closed my eyes and bent my head and began to try, there was the smallest breath of air, a tiny breeze that came in at the window. As if a presence had entered the room.”

“Not odd at all.”

“And I had a sudden sense of peace, that I was safe and loved and whole.”

“And so you are,” he said.

“And that I have no reason to fear, no matter what comes.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Tenison. “He will be with you, and keep you safe. Even in the valley of the shadow of death.”

NELL HAD MADE HER WILL IN JULY, BUT AS THE DAYS SHORTENED INTO autumn, she called her secretary James Booth to her to make a codicil.

“I want to leave money in Dr. Tenison’s hands, that he might give it to the poor of the parish of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. To those who have need of warm clothes to see them through the winter. And to free those who linger in prison for debt. And tell him that as he has shown me the path of such kindness and mercy, he should see that some of it goes to poor Papists of the parish.”

Booth’s pen scratched across the paper, and he looked up as he finished.

“Aught else, madam?”

“Yes.” Nell hesitated. Her hope was great, but so was her fear. “When I am gone, ask my son to inquire of Dr. Tenison if he would stoop to give my funeral service. Tell him I know I have not deserved it, and will understand-none should blame him if he would not. But my soul should rest easier if he would do me that last kindness.”

NELL COULD FEEL ROSE’S HAND HOLDING HERS, AND THE SMOOTHNESS of Rose’s palm against her skin, the gentle grasp of the fingers, made her feel safe. She gave her sister’s hand a squeeze. Rose moved her chair closer to Nell’s bedside. She stroked Nell’s forehead, and Nell opened her eyes to look into her sister’s face.

Rose. She had been there always, as long as Nell could remember. Strong, warm, protective, loving. Eternal as the sun and moon.

Rose smiled, but her eyes were full of tears, and Nell wished that her passing would not cause such pain.

“You are always such a comfort to me,” she whispered. “When I was small. When I ran away and you took me in and sheltered me. When I was afraid of losing Charles. You have always been there, and you have always made things better. I wish I could have done the same.”

“But, Nell, you have,” Rose protested softly. “You have always taken care for me. Always helped me. Never forgot your sister. Not many would have done that.”

“I wish I could do more,” Nell said. “Not leave you alone.”

“You do not leave me alone,” Rose said. “You are always in my heart. You will be always in my heart. Every day you will be with me.”

She brought Nell’s hand to her lips and kissed it. Nell closed her eyes. She was so tired. The draft that Dr. Harrell had given her had eased the pain, and she felt somehow as if she had no body, as if her mind floated above the bed, and only her hand in Rose’s anchored her to the world. She could hear her own breath, was aware that it was ragged and slowing. But it caused her no distress. All was well. Rose was there, and now she felt little Jemmy’s hand slip into hers. Could that be? He’d been gone so long. He spoke. What a joy to hear his sweet voice. She could not quite make out what he was saying, but she could feel the warmth of his love and his welcome. Charles was there beside him now, and his voice, too, was drawing her to him. And she knew the others were there behind him-Charles Hart, Buckingham, Rochester, Monmouth, John Lacy, Wat Clun, Michael Mohun, old Tom Killigrew, her mother and her father, and so many others. They had not gone after all. Nell smiled and sighed.

Rose heard the long exhalation and waited, counting. But no inhalation followed, and the small hand she held was still. She raised it to her cheek, taking a last caress. Nell’s eyes were closed, her face finally free from pain, at peace. A tendril of russet hair strayed over her forehead, and for the last time, Rose gently brushed it away.

ROSE HAD SAT SOME TIME WITH NELL, AND DR. HARRELL HAD COME back, to pronounce what anyone could see-that Nell was dead. And now Meg and Bridget were washing her and laying her out in the soft candlelight.

One of Nell’s hands was at her side, closed around something. Bridget uncurled the fingers. In the palm of the hand lay a small knot of ribbons, its blue and gold streamers flattened and faded.

“What’s that?” asked Meg.

Bridget shook her head. “Some penny fairing, it looks like. Who knows? We’ll leave it with her. It must have meant something to her. Mayhap it will give her comfort on her path.”

OUTSIDE, THE WORD SPREAD THROUGH THE WAITING CROWD IN A rush of whispers and gasps. Nell was gone.

A tiny red-haired girl among the press of people listened in wonder at the sighs and sobs around her and tugged at her mother’s hand.

“Who was she, Mam? Was she a princess?”

“No, poppet, she was one of us.”

The little girl looked upward and watched in awe as a lone firework burst in the night sky, a shower of bright sparks exploding in a corona and then fading gently into the blanket of stars.

There are so many people to thank for their help on Nell’s long journey to print…

My editor, Kate Seaver, for her enthusiasm and making it happen.

My wonderful agent, Kevan Lyon, who has shepherded me and the book along since before I had a complete first draft.

Elise Capron, the first agent to read part of the manuscript, who liked it, wanted to see more of it, liked that, and passed me on to Kevan Lyon. My foreign rights agent, Taryn Fagerness, for making sure that Nell would be published in Britain and Turkey! (So far…)

The members of my writing groups, Emily Heebner, Willow Healey, Elizabeth Thurber, Gil Roscoe, Bill Treziak, Carolyn Howard-Johnson, and Uriah Carr, whose thoughtful feedback helped shape Nell’s story into something far better than it would have been without their suggestions.

Kerry Madden, whose belief in the book encouraged me to keep writing and whose teaching helped me be a better writer.

The members of Kerry Madden’s classes at Vroman’s Bookstore in Pasadena, the first people who heard any of the manuscript, who loved Nell and gave me valuable suggestions about telling her story.